The scent of home
by Ali Mami
Summary: Out of jealousy, Sherlock joins John when he goes grocery shopping after John mentioned this "cute checkout girl." Sherlock's feeling for John keeping growing with every second he passes with him, but his deficient understanding of human emotion keeps Sherlock from understanding his own feelings. Johnlock :)
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock scrunched his nose as he scanned the colorful cereal packages lining the shelves. He took a step closer and swept the filthy, cold metal with his finger. Gaping at his grey fingertip, he muttered, "Dear God."

John huffed, snatching two Cheerios packages and dropping them into the small shopping trolley. "This is why I told you not to come."

Sherlock straightened up and asked indignantly, "What did I do?"

"What did you do?" John shook his head, rubbing his eyes impatiently. "You've been gasping and pleading to God ever since we got here. It hasn't even been five minutes." John placed his fist on his hip, the other on the trolley's handle. "You obviously don't want to be here. So why did you come?"

Sherlock looked away, avoiding John's eyes, and made a sweeping motion with his arm, gesturing to the general direction of the inside of the small supermarket. "I came to help you, of course. Why else would I come to this abominable place?"

Eyebrows knitting together, John let out a dry laugh. "Funny how you've always told me 'no' when I asked you for help grocery shopping, but the moment I mention the cute checkout girl–"

"John, John, John," Sherlock said, turning his back to him, and padded along the aisle. "Leave the deduction work to me. Just focus on things you _can_ do. Like shopping."

Behind Sherlock, there was a sigh, followed by those familiar clunks that he could recognize anywhere anytime, following behind him. Sherlock smiled. Those sounds were as comforting as a delicious cup of tea on a rainy day.

But his good mood soon faded, when he reached the checkout counters, separated by shelves holding magazines and candy. His eyes darted to the only open counter, the one on the right with a line of four people. Behind the counter, handing change to an old lady, was a strawberry blonde with a navy shirt and a symmetric, pearly white smile. Her face was round, her eyes large as a cat's, and her full lips colored in pastel pink. _It can't be her. _The face was too baby-like for John's taste. Sherlock's gaze lowered to her chest, each breast the size of a pineapple. Sherlock rolled his eyes. _That's her._

Frowning, he turned his head to John, who then stood next to him. Sherlock opened his mouth to complain, but John shot his hand up, and stared down at the floor. "Just," he said with cheeks flushing, "just…don't." During the short moment of silence between the two, John's hand slowly descended. "All right."

"You're a pervert."

John jolted and shouted, "I'm _not_ a per–" He stopped, and gaped around them as his voice echoed in the supermarket. People walking by shot them suspicious looks.

John covered his mouth, glancing between the air conditioner on the ceiling and his old, unpolished shoes. Leg shaking, he frowned at Sherlock and hissed, "I'm not a _pervert_, all right? I'm a _man_! I'm a healthy heterosexual man."

Sherlock froze. His muscles tensed. A painful heat burned in his stomach. He remained erect, willing his knees not to buckle, his legs not to tremble. Sherlock kept his eyes locked on John's, holding his glare. They stood there, unmoving, as their slow, long-paced breathing broke the silence between them.

The draft coming from the air conditioner prickled Sherlock's skin and brushed John's air. The sweet scent of John's cologne wafted in the air.

Sherlock's hands itched–no, they ached to touch John. He gripped his hands and stabbed his nails into his palms, forcing the hurt away with a pain he could actually bear.

"Fine." Sherlock spat the word. He turned around and strode to the open counter.

Behind him, John began to call his name, but stopped midway, then muttered unintelligible words.

Sherlock passed by the people waiting in line, and bumped into every single one of them. People complained, but who cared.

He left and walked home, struggling to keep himself from glancing back. He shook his head, biting down his lip. _He's not there, Sherlock. He's not following you._ He could tell by how much he missed those clumsy clumps.

Once he returned to Baker Street, he was feeling better. The walk and the fresh air had done him some good. His anger had diminished. That was until he opened the door to his apartment.

John's couch sat in the center, as if mockingly staring back at Sherlock. He lurched to the couch and kicked it with all his strength. Pain shot up his foot and reached his knee.

"Ahhh!" he screamed, more due to frustration than being hurt.

With his hands clutching at his foot, Sherlock dropped on his couch and moaned, filling the emptiness in the apartment. He gazed at the ceiling, breathing heavily, and failing at keeping John off his mind. _Why am I so angry? I've always known he was an heterosexual ape. And why should I care that he likes young girls with big breasts?_

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek. He didn't know the answer, but he didn't have to to blame it all on John. And as he sat on the couch, the place where he had spent most of his time in the past few years, he couldn't help but notice that even though he was back at 221B Baker Street, he didn't feel at home. Because the only thing that felt like home was the strong, sweet scent of John's cologne.

**\- Thanks for reading this far. I plan on writing a part two because I don't like sad endings.**

**So, what do you guys think? What should be improved? Any criticism is welcome. **

**PS. This has probably quite a few grammatical errors. Sorry about that. I'm still learning the English language. **


	2. Chapter 2

Holding a bag of groceries, John climbed the stairs, each step creaking under his feet. He stopped at the door to his apartment and took a long, deep breath before twisting the doorknob. Putting on a frown, John strode inside and asked demandingly, "What was that all about?"

Lying on the couch with his hands under his head, Sherlock slowly opened his eyes then stared blankly at John. "What do you mean?"

John dropped the bag, which hit the floor with a thud, and put his fists on his hips. "You know very well what I mean. You call me a pervert and then storm out the store."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose ever so slightly. "Oh…that." He shut his eyes and stood still as John waited for an explanation.

John's leg began to shake and he rubbed his lips, struggling to keep his cool. "So?"

Sherlock remained motionless, his breathing deep yet regular.

John yanked the bag off the floor and stomped over to the kitchen, his steps echoing in the apartment.

"She's half your age."

John stopped under the doorway and turned around to glare at Sherlock, whose eyes remained shut. "I said she was _cute_! I only complimented her. What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing apparently."

John threw his hands in the air, as if asking for divine intervention to help him with the sulking moron on the couch. "I swear, I don't get you, Sherlock—"

Sherlock tilted his head. "No one does."

"—it's as if you're angry with me, but I did nothing wrong." John let out a frustrated laugh, but something warmed up in his chest as he said, "You're acting like a jealous girlfriend."

Sherlock flinched. His handsome face turned to stone and his lips shrunk, tightly pressed against each other. Those sharp cheekbones of his tinted pink.

The sounds of speeding cars and people chatting outside entered the room through the half open window, filling the heavy quietness. As the silence between the two stretched, John's face flushed and his ears burned up. His stomach fluttered and he clutched at it, forcing it to stop.

Suddenly, a sugary scent reached his nose, and he bit the inside of his cheek. The juice bottle inside the bag had probably broken when he dropped it.

John huffed and rubbed his face hard, trying to soften his tense muscles. "This is ridiculous."

Sherlock's lips curled upward, and something inside John wavered and he smiled too.

His whole body became lighter, the way it always did when Sherlock smiled.

John headed to the kitchen, then placed the bag on the sink and began taking out the things inside. At the bottom of the bag, a cracked bottle swam in orange juice.

"I know I can be difficult to deal with," said Sherlock's deep voice behind John, who immediately startled.

The bag slipped from John's fingers and fell on the sink with a loud clank. John turned around, his hand holding his chest, his palms feeling the drumming of his heart. "Do—don't sneak up on me like that."

Only one step away from John, Sherlock stood there facing him, his blue gaze unfazed. Sherlock said, "I might sometimes act possessive of you—" John's stomach lurched "—but that's because I don't want to lose you."

John's body stiffened as the most pleasant warmth filled him inside. His feet felt lighter, like he was floating. He sucked his lips inside his mouth, keeping himself from smiling.

Sherlock licked his upper lip, pale like his skin, before saying, "You're my only friend."

John nodded slowly over and over again, mechanically like a bobblehead. Such simple words, words he'd already heard before, and yet, they didn't sink in. They hung in the air, and John couldn't grab them. Something inside him refused to. The knot in the pit of his stomach hurt him, and spread a heavy sensation across his stomach and chest.

With one eyebrow raised, Sherlock stared at him. "Is something wrong?"

John shook his head, ignoring the feeling of corrosion filling him. "Nope. Nothing at all." He patted Sherlock's arm twice, and forced a smile on his face. "You're my best friend. You could never lose me because of a girl. No matter how cute she is."

Sherlock nodded once. "Good," he said then turned around and marched out the kitchen.

When John heard what he assumed to be Sherlock plopping down on the couch, he turned to the sink and leaned over it with his palms on the cold countertop. He watched the juice flowing out of the shattered bottle into the skin and down the drain.

_Drip. Drip. Drip_.

John's fingers began curling, his hands balling into fists. _What's wrong with me?_

He'd been having mood swings for a few weeks, but that day it was just too much. He was like an hormonal teenage girl. His best friend told him he didn't want to lose him—his only friend—and it crushed him. How could the fact that his best friend cherishes their friendship make him feel so miserable?

_I'm going insane._

After cleaning up the mess and putting away the groceries, John plodded over to the living room and dropped on the crimson couch. He leaned back and sighed. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Sherlock as he lay down with an open magazine over his face, his chest rising and falling rhythmically.

John shut his eyes, enjoying the draft cooling down his skin, and the soft sound of Sherlock's breathing calming him. His eyelids weighed down, and he let himself fall asleep. That afternoon, John dreamt of piercing blue eyes and skin the color of ivory under moonlight.

**-I meant to show John struggling with his feelings, but maybe I overdid it with the variety of emotions? Not sure. I changed POVs, but it doesn't feel different, does it? I still can't create a voice that represents the characters' personalities. Oh, well! I guess I need more practice.**


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